To A Lady Poem by Morgan Michaels

It's nice, beyond a certain stage
(merely a euphemism for age)
To leave behind the vexing task
of falling, thrice a day, in love-
Often by the broadest light thereof.

And hormone driven, bear Love's cross-
Charming, awfully, the way
Secretions frack our mortal clay
Such as a shower cannot remedy-
Ardor paid with future inanition.

Abandoned more in practice than in theory,
Now. Then, I never minded, really,
A 'court the present, shirk
The future' policy retired, I recall one fact:
This Love's a lot of work.